


Dog Days

by carnography (orphan_account)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, New Caprica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:30:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3403910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/carnography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's a messy drunk.</p><p>(Season 3, New Caprica)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Days

She's a messy drunk.  
  
Not that it bothers him, especially when she's moments away from falling out of her top.  
  
Her gorgeous breasts are practically spilling from that flimsy camisole. It's distracting him; it's got him praying for a tectonic shift. It's got him tonguing the crook of his mouth and forgetting that they're supposed to be playing a game of triad on the dirt floor of her tiny New Caprican tent.  
  
He may be able to hold his liquor more than Laura Roslin, who used to be all white wine and champagne bubbles, but this rotgut has him a little off his game tonight. He can't help but stare.  
  
"It's your turn, Bill," she reminds him. He looks up to see her grinning, wide and white, and running a hand through her disheveled hair. She looks like a wreck, like she’s just done a sommersault. It's sexy as hell.  
  
"Hit me," he grunts, laying down one of his cards. It might be a prince-high-red or it might be a page-low-white, but he really doesn't give a frak. He just wants her to lean forward and peel a card off the deck, afford him a better view. Maybe give him a catch of her intoxicated-intoxicating scent.  
  
He’ll take anything. He's already lost the game, anyway.  
  
Laura doesn't move. She just stares at him with a devilish smirk. And even though he’s a little slow on the draw, it still sets his blood on fire.  
  
"I've got a better idea," she says.  
  
Laura half-crawls over the playing field. Her bare feet slip on the cards, kicking the deck everywhere, and she awkwardly stumbles into his lap. He would've laughed but she's straddling him, squeezing his ribs with the press of her legs. She's crushing her mouth to his on sweet, high-pitched whimpers that make his head swim. And all the blood in his head rushes to his cock—pounding and throbbing and driving him absolutely wild.  
  
Her kisses are wet and hurried, her teeth tugging on his lower lip. She tastes like vodka and crushed peppermint, and her thighs feel firm and smooth and warm under his palms. Streaks of dirt from his groping hands are tracking up her pale legs, all the way to the bare crease of her hip where his grimy thumb swirls and presses.  
  
"I've wanted to do this all night," she manages between a kiss to his lips and a kiss to the side of his mouth.  
  
Bill groans, a wordless "please, don't stop." But as he moves forward, she leans back—settling on his thighs.  
  
"I bet...I know...what you've wanted to do," she says with a coy smile, her slurs somehow charming and all-knowing.  
  
"You're confident," he responds.  
  
"Mmm."  
  
Her hands skate over his, slipping them from her bare thighs to underneath the thin fabric of her top. Her skin is hot beneath his hands and she bites her bottom lip as she guides his hands over her navel and her rib cage, beneath an elastic band to her soft, teasing breasts. Bill can't contain a moan of her name; her hard nipples pressing against his palms. Laura hums, her hands retreating; and she throws her head to the side, long curls hanging limply in the air.  
  
"Was I wrong?" She smiles down at him—a girlish, heartbreaker’s smile—as she trails her hands up his arms and to his neck. Her nails playing with the hair about his ears and the humid curls at the nape of his neck.  
  
Bill grins, and watches his knuckles push against the gray fabric—his fingertips smoothing over the smattering of freckles across the tops of her breasts. His hands regretfully trickle downward, to her waist, and he grabs a hold of her camisole. Bunching it in his fists.  
  
"You never are."  
  
He pulls upward and Laura giggles against the fabric as her breasts bounce free. He rips the tank off of her head and tosses it across the tent. Bill smiles up at her. She’s half-naked and her eyes are so bright, and the way she starts to shimmy out of her skirt makes him feel like Zeus himself. They’re both crazy on moonshine and the waterlogged air, crackling lust and new-found freedom. The sweet beauty of invincibility.  
  
He could live for this. Getting shitfaced drunk and playing Triad in the dirt, fooling around like summer lovers in the summer heat.  
  
He likes getting messy with her.  
  
And he kisses her—hard and hopelessly sloppy.  
  
He’s a messy drunk. But he doesn’t mind; and he thinks, as she smiles against his lips, that neither does she.


End file.
